Thomas, Benjamin, Alexander
by Revriley
Summary: Czeslaw introduces himself to the thin air, over, and over, and over. On streets, in restaurants, in cinemas. "My name is–" "I'm–" "I–" (References to past torture within)


"Hello, I'm Thomas."

He mutters the words in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. As soon as the name passes between his lips he relaxes, but does not slow down his pace. It's a comfort, but nonetheless it precludes nothing. Three minutes later, he whispers, "I'm Thomas" to a man smoking on his doorstep. _Thomas Edison, nice to meet you_.

"My name is Benjamin," he proclaims loudly, right outside the entrance of an ice cream parlor. A young salesclerk on her lunch break spares him an odd glance, and then looks away. He steps inside the parlor, orders a hot fudge sundae, and spends the next fifteen minutes incrementally draining it at the bar. He swings his feet, knocking his heels back into the metal bar of his stool.

"I'm Benjamin, but you can call me Ben!" he tells the girl next to him, though she has not asked for his name. His glass is empty, and he hops off the barstool with deliberately clumsy movements. Moves past chairs, out the door, past the salesclerk without so much as a _cold outside, isn't it miss?_

"The name's Alexander," he huffs, checking for human shadows on the pavement as he approaches a street corner. "Alexander Graham Bell." Notes the first floor windows, then the second floor windows. Keeps an eye on the man reading the newspaper on the park bench.

"Leonardo!" He exclaims the name too loudly on purpose; the librarian gives him a warning look. He wrinkles his nose, scuffs his shoes against the carpet. "But I hate that name. Momma calls me it all the time. I like Leo better. I'm ten. Could you please show me where the chemistry books are?" He smiles widely, stretching his lips in the way a certain blond had once upon a time. "They're for my big brother!"

"Cyrus," he mumbles, feeling acid eat away at his skin and unbearable agony searing his eyelids. _Cyrus McCormick_. The bustle of the farmer's market around him muffles and fades away, muted by the echoes of his own screams ringing in his ears. His scalp prickles, and for a second there is a hand tugging at his hair, pulling so hard that it _r i p s_ and _oh God oh God is he near? is he close?_

"Cyrus!" He wails, hugging his arms to his chest. "Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus!" He claps a hand to his mouth and doubles over in the middle of the aisle. A blurry figure crouches down in front of him, and he instinctively lurches back and down onto the ground. He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand (ignoring the stinging of his palm) and tries again.

"M-my name," he says, twisting his shirt beneath his fingers. "It's Cyrus. I want –" Swallows, breathes. "I'm–" Breathes. "I'm sorry, miss. I don't…know where my parents are."

"Louis. L-o-u-i-s. Thank you." The clerk at the post office barely glances at him as he scribbles the name down on the envelope. They're swamped this time of year, which is why Czes makes a point of introducing himself to every clerk he can during the twenty minute wait in the queue. "My surname, sir? Braille or Pasteur, depending on my mood." The clerk shoots him a quelling glare. "Oh, all right. It's Dubois. Sorry, sir."

"George," he sobs. "George, Georgie." Borrowed pleasure at the thought of cutting into his his own flesh sings through his veins. For a second, the corners of his lips twitch up into a smile _what lovely pain_ and he gasps and glares into the darkened alleyways on his right and left sides _go for his nostrils next_ for signs of anything, anyone. Every flicker of the streetlights nearly sends him bolting.

"Thomas," he states firmly. To the usher, to the police officer, the soda jerk. To the pedestrians, to the stray dog, to the open air. He says it now without thinking; the name exhales through his teeth without a thought, automatic, instinctive, primal.

It is the same, always the same, even when decades pass and he has long since surrounded himself with immortals (unthinkable) dear to him (absurd!). Even then, he still - once in awhile, reflexively - opens his mouth, smiles sweetly – no thought whatsoever –

"My name's TCzes–Cz–! Oh."

A cough, a flick of the head. The moment passes.

"Sorry about that. My name is Czeslaw Meyer. It's very nice to make your acquaintance. How do you do?"

* * *

 **The idea for this came to me, and I had to write it out of my system all at once. Apologies for the hasty...product.**

 **Also published over on AO3 and Tumblr.**


End file.
